


Voulez-Vous

by untilourapathy (gwendolen_lotte)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunk Character, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fashion & Couture, HP: EWE, Humor, Love Confessions, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Muggle London, Multi, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 07:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13993584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolen_lotte/pseuds/untilourapathy
Summary: In which Pansy’s caught graffiting a poster of her ex, Hermione’s caught campaigning for the not-so-homeless and Luna’s caught in love.A series of interconnecting stories where the butterfly effect comes into full bloom.





	Voulez-Vous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HenryMercury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/gifts).



> Love you, I hope you enjoy xx

If Hermione could change one thing, it wouldn’t be the political shitfuck of a situation that was happening in wizarding Britain. Nor would it be the messy breakup she’d had with Ron last year, or that Harry had fucked off to become a Hitwizard for the Ministry, always going off to some far-off country and never available for tea. It would be that she was neighbours with Luna fucking Lovegood.

Hermione prided herself on many a virtue, but her ability to function on little sleep as a Junior Healer at St Mungo’s was not one of them. So when she found herself awake at arse o’clock, bleary eyed and most definitely perturbed, she fished her wand from where it had rolled onto the floor in the night, casting a struggling Tempus.

 _Four in the fucking morning,_ she thought, throwing her pillow at the window in frustration. Hermione was up at this unfortunate time because her _lovely, considerate, self-aware_ neighbour (the aforementioned Luna Lovegood) had a Portkey to Paris that morning, needing to Apparate to Heathrow in good time. This, of course, meant that Luna had taken to humming, packing and wheeling her unwieldy suitcase out of her turreted home that very morning, with absolutely no care for any sleep-deprived neighbours who had actual jobs that involved looking after people.

And Hermione was an actual Healer as well, she thought bitterly. Luna was just some alternative Healing practitioner, tricking her customers with her Nargles and Marbles, Blibbering and Blubbering Humdingers and her Crumpled and Uncrumpled-Horn Snorkacks, or whatever.

Throwing open the window, she was determined to have a word - or more - with the unreputable Lovegood.

‘Luna,’ she hissed (for _she_ was a considerate neighbour, thank you very much), ‘will you _shut up_.’

Luna just waved, cheery as always. ‘I’ll send you a postcard from Paris,’ she sang, dragging her suitcase onto her front step.

‘Have fun at ‘Alternative Healing ‘conference,’ Hermione grumped, closing the window carefully. Feeling about for her wand, she lit a Lumos before padding her way to her kitchen. Fucking Luna, Portkeying off to see quacks bumbling about while she had another hundred-hour work week. Now where was the fucking tea?

A cup of English Breakfast later, so strong the spoon was doing a dance in her cup, Hermione felt slightly better. Slightly, mind you, and resolved to send Harry another passive-aggressive invitation to tea. Slippery bugger, she thought. He was always using the ‘I’m working excuse’ - there was _always_ time for tea. Hurrying out the door, she patted her jeans to make sure she had everything she needed for the day. She slammed her door with a sigh, throwing her lime robes into her satchel as she ran to Parsons Green, taking the District line to Paddington.

Finding a particularly interesting spot on the map to fixate on, Hermione began to plan what she’d need for her upcoming tea party. A new tea tray, one new strainer and one Harry Potter, hopefully, back from the wilds of Siberia or wherever he was this time - Harry was restless and unsettled and all of those words, and she couldn’t do anything about it. They needed to live their own lives, now. Even if only for a little bit. She’d also need to invite her fellow Healer Cho, if only to entice Harry to stay at her tea party long enough for a chat, Hermione thought wryly. When had their lives become so entangled with all their maybes and to-bes?

As she hurried to the Apparation point behind the bins, shoved by about three people on her way, Hermione thought she saw something - a familiar figure. Taking a slight detour round to a small bench, she peered closer.

Parkinson? It couldn’t be, she thought, blinking furiously. But the woman was little and definitely seemed like she could hand over someone to a megalomaniac. Shit, Hermione thought. Wandering towards the still figure, wrapped up in an old shirt, she looked around for anyone suspicious.

‘Parkinson?’ she called, shaking her.

*

Pansy woke up to the sound of a nasally voice yelling her name.

‘Fuck off,’ she murmured, too tired to get up.

She had collapsed onto the bench at the station last night - too knackered to Apparate home to Notting Hill, too lazy to figure out how to take the Tube back. She cracked open an eyelid, sticky from sleep, and found two brown eyes peering at her.

‘Granger,’ she grumbled, noticing the person’s heart-shaped face and perfect teeth. ‘What the actual fuck.’

‘This is horrible,’ Granger was saying, fretting as she pulled out some atrocious lime green robes from her bottomless bag, covering Pansy’s prone form with them. She seemed to have been there for quite a while. Pansy dearly hoped Granger hadn’t spent that time looking at her like a complete creep.

‘I knew that the wizarding world had been unduly harsh on the Slytherins after the war, but I didn’t realise how much so,’ Granger said, looking frantic. Far too frantic for Pansy, who needed at least twenty minutes of utter silence after waking up. And a Warming Charm. Thank Merlin she lived with Draco, who understood this, and not in this dire situation involving train stations and Grangers.

Pansy just blinked up at her and her perfect fucking face. ‘What.’

‘If you need a place to say,’ Granger continued, hair flying as she earnestly pulled out some water and a pear for Pansy, ‘just shout, alright? I promise it’s not charity. Or was that insensitive of me? I’m so, _so_ sorry about your situation. But we’ll help you get back on your feet, I promise.’

‘If you don’t have anything useful to say, I’ll just be going back to sleep, thanks,’ Pansy griped, sticking her head back underneath a top she had taken off some lad at last night’s party. She shoved the pear back at Granger.

‘Oh - oh, Parkinson, don’t be like that,’ Granger insisted. ‘I’m sure I can sort something out for you. The Ministry has housing, and I can talk to someone to put you on the top of the list. And you could always stay with Neville and Cedric - they’ve got a spare room. It’s currently filled with plants, but I’m sure that Nev could move them - not to imply that you’re worth less than the plants - the three of you might get on well, actually, if - ’

‘Granger,’ Pansy said, realisation slowly dawning on her, ‘I don’t need a place to stay.’

‘No?’ Granger said, looking mildly stunned and very concerned. Quite a feat, Pansy thought.

‘No,’ Pansy answered, slowly. ‘I am not homeless, if that’s what you thought.’

‘Oh.’ And then Granger went all quiet, turning her head in embarrassment. Taking her lime robes and pear from Pansy’s form, she slowly piled them back into her bag with a contrite look.

‘I’m sorry for assuming,’ Granger said, sincere in her apology, not quite meeting her eyes.

‘No - no, it’s fine,’ Pansy said, still confused and blinded by Granger’s beauty - _when -_ and rather shattered. ‘I was just tired after a night out.’

‘Clubbing, then?’

‘Not quite,’ Pansy replied, thinking of Wheezes she had bought the day before to enact her plan.

‘What, then?’ Granger asked, offering Pansy a hand as she made to sit up, smoothing out her black robes from last night’s reconnaissance endeavour.

‘Ah,’ Pansy said. ‘Run in with an ex after a party, you know how it is.’

*

It was suitably late the night before and Pansy was tired. Or would have been, had she not a plan.

Pansy was three shots deep and her voice was hoarse from the party earlier, but there was nothing like vengeance to brighten up one’s evening, she thought. Grabbing her Graffi-Me spray she had asked Diggory to buy for her from Wheezes’, thankful that at least one of her contacts from her mother’s circle of friends proved useful, she began to tiptoe down North Side to Quality Quidditch Supplies. In the window was a waving poster of one Ginevra fucking Weasley, chaser for the Harpies, sponsor of the Nimbus 2001 and former paramour of the Miss Parkinson in question.

Growling at Ginny’s oh-so-cheerful wave, Pansy sprayed the poster with a deeply-felt aggression, borne of the fucking collapse of their ‘relationship’, if you could even call it that. The worst thing was, that she’d had to find out by catching the two of them in bed together. Blaise - always more charming one (or at least on the outside), always cleverer, always the winner - snogging the lights of who she thought was her girlfriend, at least at the time. At least she hadn’t laboured under that delusion for too long, Pansy sighed, punctuating her anger by adding a set of devil horns on Ginny’s grinning face.

She once knew that grin. That grin was once hers to see, she thought bitterly, kicking the shop window with no small amount of force.

‘The fuck?’

Pansy slowly turned, catching a flash of red in the window that was most definitely not the poster.

‘Ginny,’ she said, voice cracking on the last syllable, looking at her ex - at Ginny’s scuffed shoes, her messy hair and the mole on her forearm, her former favourite place to kiss.

‘Pansy?’

Ginny was open and brave and comfortable in her own skin - all the things Pansy had been drawn to, once upon a time. And now she was here.

Ginny took one look at Pansy - heels kicked off, Firewhiskey in her hair, glitter streaked all down one leg - but not quite the other, with a Graffi-Me in hand.

‘We weren’t together,’ Ginny said in understanding, nodding at Pansy’s ire in graffiti form. ‘You know that, right? When Blaise and I shagged - we weren’t together. Technically, at least.’

‘I know,’ Pansy sighed, ‘I know we weren’t. But that doesn’t make me any less angry.’

Pansy capped the Graffi-Me, slowly cleaning the graffiti behind her with a hesitant flick of her wand. Ginny was always good at disorientating Pansy. Pansy used to love it in her.

‘I know,’ Ginny said, reaching out to clamp her hand on Pansy’s wrist. ‘I probably shouldn’t have slept with Blaise anyway. Not then, at least.’

‘Do you regret it?’ Pansy asked. Ginny’s skin was hardened and calloused and white with dry flakes. Ginny needed to moisturise.

‘I love him,’ Ginny said, hand still on Pansy’s wrist. And there she was, again - that passionate, charming Ginny, smile curled so strongly around the template of her mouth that Pansy thought she could almost taste the triumph there.

‘That’s not an answer,’ Pansy said, angry again. She knew what she must have looked like, drunk and drunk and angry, in somebody else’s top for a jacket and barefoot on the Diagon street, wrist held by the ex she still thought about. Only sometimes, though. Sometimes.

‘Of course I don’t think I should have shagged him _then_ ,’ Ginny said, lifting her hand off awkwardly. She had probably figured out Pansy’s emotional turmoil by now. ‘I shouldn’t have been so horrible to you. I knew we hadn’t defined things, but also in that way where we were on our way to.’

Ginny looked at the lamppost awkwardly.

‘But I don’t regret what we did, me and Blaise. It’s as they say - no promises, no regrets,’ Ginny said, with more confidence this time. The fiddling of her pockets betrayed her. ‘Because of what we do have now. ’

‘Good,’ Pansy said, surprised to find that she meant it.

‘Yeah?’

‘I was mostly angry because we lost something we could have had,’ Pansy said, thinking. Or trying to, at least. The shots had definitely been _shots_. ‘Not that you found someone new.’

‘Oh,’ Ginny said, pleased. ‘But I really am sorry.’

‘I know,’ Pansy said, a little sadly. Thank fuck she wasn’t a sad drunk. ‘I’m over it now, I think. But I think we had to talk about it first.’

Pansy was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she had alcohol in her hair and was vandalising public property and was - and was having a civil conversation with her ex-girlfriend she had spent so long hating. Or at least using to channel her aggression, she supposed. She had just sort of deflated, at this point. Run out of steam, too busy trying to pick up her own life to worry about Ginny’s. Pansy, just about to awkwardly make her way back down North Side, was caught by surprise as Ginny actually said something. How odd - Ginny had never really been the one to talk.

‘I’ll join you then,’ Ginny laughed, seizing the Wheeze and graffiting her own face on the poster with three horns and specs. Pansy was at a loss. There was no protocol with exes. Nor was there with current girlfriends, she supposed.

‘I miss you,’ Ginny said. Pansy couldn’t see how you could bare your heart like that - crack your ribs open to give up your heart, bloodied, for the world to see. Just like that.

‘You can’t just _say_ things like that,’ Pansy grumbled. Her heart, on the other hand, was unintentionally stuck somewhere in her oesophagus and it couldn’t quite make up its mind.

‘I just did,’ Ginny said, all laissez-faire. She had always been, irritatingly so.

‘I just said I’m over you. You just said you’re in love with Blaise. You can’t go round saying you miss me _now.’_

_‘_ Friends,’ Ginny said, laughing at Pansy’s ire. ‘We can be friends. Those are a thing you’ve heard of, yes?’

‘Fuck _off,’_ Pansy said, shoving Ginny as she remembered exactly why she, too, had missed Ginny. Maybe it’d turn out alright, she thought.

‘I’m serious,’ Ginny said, seriously. ‘Harry and I are still really good mates. I’m trying to get him to finally ask Cho to something, but he’s so irritatingly stubborn.’

‘Sounds like someone I know,’ Pansy said wryly.

‘Fuck off,’ Ginny said, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s only complicated because of Cedric. He’s too afraid to commit because he thinks he can’t give Cho what she needs, or some shit. Which is why it would make perfect sense for all three of them to date, especially given that Harry’s had a thing for them since Fourth Year, but apparently not.’

Pansy just laughed. ‘Classic. Why are we such disasters?’

‘Come back to mine and I’ll tell you,’ Ginny asked hopefully. ‘To sleep it off, not anything more. That way we can chat in the morning. About our shitshows of a life. You can catch up with Blaise, too. He said that you haven’t been round to his, lately.’

‘I wonder why,’ Pansy grumbled. But it was a playful grumble, this time. Maybe. Throwing a Tempus in the air, she frowned.

‘What?’ Ginny asked, who was used to Pansy’s little mannerisms by now, capping the Graffi-Me can.

‘I’m late,’ she hissed, looking around for her heels on the barren pavement as Ginny threw her the Wheeze. ‘I have a Portkey to catch.’

‘Heathrow, the Ministry or Gatwick?’ Ginny asked, scanning the abandoned North Side with a small smile. She had always liked the freedom of the dark - Pansy, funnily enough, had always ached for the sun. Perils of growing up with a Vitamin D deficiency in the dungeons, Ginny had always joked.

‘Heathrow,’ Pansy huffed back, gathering her shoes back into her arms. ‘I’m off to Paris Fashion Week. I’m off to report with Parvati.’

‘Aren’t you a columnist, and isn’t she a junior fashion editor?’ Ginny asked, following Pansy’s really rather rapid stride up back to Diagon.

‘I’m writing on materialism in post-war society. She’s going for the sparkles, I think,’ Pansy said, wincing as her foot caught on a shard of a Butterbeer bottle.

‘Ah,’ said Ginny, running after her. ‘Do I detect a little bit of bitterness?’

‘We went on that date, once,’ Pansy confessed, as she tried to move past the liquor to Apparate back to where she needed to be. ‘Remember?’

‘Ah,’ Ginny said. ‘The ‘date’. Or should I say one night stand? Where she bailed on you after you asked for a second?’

‘I only asked for a second date to be _polite,’_ Pansy grumped.

‘A second ‘date’, of course. And Pans, you don’t do anything to be polite.’

‘Fine, yes, she was that one,’ Pansy said, brushing glitter off her leg to no avail. Ginny was open and brave and loud and not hers to see. ‘The one night stand one.’

‘Ouch,’ Ginny said. Ginny didn’t say much - she usually waited for Pansy to say something, as Pansy usually had something to say. But not this time. They looked at each other, both slightly crushed and deflated and malformed by the shitshow that this world, but alive.

‘I’m off home then,’ Ginny said after a beat or two, drawing her in for a hug. ‘Come see us soon? If only so I have someone to talk to. Blaise is always off at Neville and Cedric’s, nowadays. For Neville’s new business venture, or something. Can’t think what for.’

‘I’ll visit once I’m back,’ Pansy promised, waving goodbye. She’d get over Ginny, properly this time (she really would, she thought). She’d find out what Blaise and Ginny were _really_ up to, and what this business of Blaise and Neville’s was. There was nothing as soothing as a good goss. Because she was fairly certain, at least from her contacts, that Neville wasn’t starting a business anytime soon. She did wonder what Blaise was doing there. And Neville and Cedric shared a flat? What was this, war hero real estate?

She was so busy wrapped up in her thoughts that Pansy didn’t notice a small figure make their way down the very same street she trod upon. Naturally, she just had to collide right into the person, someone with copious amounts of dirty blonde hair that someone found its way into her nostrils.

‘Fuck!’ Pansy shrieked as her ankle gave way as the person’s bag thumped on top of her, frightened and angry all at once. Her wand instinctively found its way into her grasp, holding it out at the blurry person in front of her. For Pansy found herself on the grimy street _rather_ stressed, the person’s suitcase half on her and her heels missing, _again._

‘Oh,’ came a trill and an extended hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’

It was from Lovegood. Merlin, Lovegood? Was this some sort of Hogwarts reunion on which she’d missed the memo? Why was everyone tramping the streets of Diagon at arse o’clock, anyway? It wasn’t as if she cared, though. Fuck it.

‘ _Lovegood,’_ Pansy whined, casting another Tempus. Shit. ‘This could not be any less convenient.’

Lovegood did one of her odd dances around Pansy again, cheeks flushed pink from the biting night air and eyes bright.

‘Fuck, fuck, I’m late,’ Pansy snapped, colour rising in her cheeks, choosing to ignore whatever Lovegood could have once been. ‘I have places to be, Lovegood. Unlike _some_.’

Apparating her way to the Italian Water Gardens in Hyde Park and running to Paddington with some difficulty (for Pansy was really rather drunk), Pansy had had enough of today. Emotionally fraught reunions and bad party aside, this was the last straw. Collapsing on a bench at Paddington, she let herself fall under the blessed blanket of sleep. She’d wake for her Portkey later, she thought. Later.

*

‘You’re right,’ Granger said, nodding thoughtfully at Pansy’s recounting of her night previous. ‘Neville _isn’t_ starting a business. I wonder what Blaise goes over for, then.’

‘Gin’s friends with Longbottom, surely,’ Pansy frowned, confused as to why Granger had decided to focus on that. ‘I thought she’d know.’

Granger was looking at her with her curls falling out of her bun, cheeks and neck red and with a waist to die for. Pansy squirmed and made to pull last night’s shirt over herself a little more appropriately.

‘You went on a date with Parvati?’ Granger asked, changing the subject. Granger let herself sit on Pansy’s bench, swinging her long legs round so that they were nearly touching Pansy’s. Fuck. ‘I thought she was still hung up on Lav.’

Pansy looked for a distraction, not wanting to talk about her sex life with Granger. The thing with Parvati hadn’t been a _date,_ exactly _._ More like a one night stand gone wrong. That ‘gone wrong’ being a rejection and a stinging note the next day, that is. Pansy let her eyes drift onto the station wall, flicking over the station clock.

‘I’m late,’ Pansy said instead, panic creeping onto her as she watched the giant clock tick ominously. ‘Late. Fucking late.’

‘For what?’ Granger asked, watching Pansy gather her stuff and hop her way to the Apparition point behind the bins. It could be wishful thinking on Pansy’s part, but Pansy was sure there was at least some wistfulness to Granger’s gaze.

‘I was meant to catch a Portkey at Heathrow,’ Pansy said, ‘to Paris. For Fleur’s show.’

‘Luna - my neighbour - she’s going to Paris too,’ Hermione offered, unfuckinghelpfully.

Fuck, Pansy thought. Is that why Luna had wheeled her suitcase around that morning, when she had bumped into her?

‘That’s why I’m late, the fucker,’ she griped, fumbling around for her shoes and accidentally brushing over Granger’s stomach with a blush. ‘Lovegood crashed into me. Fuck’s sake.’

‘You might be able to make it? If it’s private, you could try get the Portkey delayed.’

‘No,’ Pansy sighed, manically flicking through all her contacts in her head. ‘I’ll just have to give my ticket to someone else. Parvati and I were meant to go report for the _Prophet’s_ editorial section, but I suppose I’ll just have to give her my spare ticket and hopes she finds someone else. I’ll switch my column for something else. You wouldn’t happen to know anything around town worth a column on?’

‘I - I do some philanthropic work,’ Granger hedged. Fiddling with her curls like she wasn’t the prettiest thing Pansy had laid eyes on since - well, since that terrifyingly bad one night stand with Parvati.

‘Perfect,’ Pansy agreed, seizing on it. She’d have seized on anything, to be honest. ‘I’ll do - I’ll do it on the change post-war citizens have made to their outlook on charity, if any.’

Granger looked conflicted, and a little surprised. It suited her - but most things seemed to. How had Pansy only made this discovery _now?_ ‘I’ll be late for my shift if I stay any longer but -’

‘We can meet up for coffee later,’ Pansy said, too relieved that she wouldn’t be flayed by her editor to think of whether that would come off as inappropriate. ‘After I shower and get rid of the Firewhiskey that’s seeped into my very soul. And you can tell me about whatever poncy charity you’ve got behind the scenes then.’

‘Fuck off,’ Granger said, her smile lines crinkling to make up for it. ‘But sounds fab. Floo me?’

‘I don’t know your Floo address,’ Pansy said. She felt her teeth break through the skin of her lip as she watched one of Granger’s eyelashes fall onto her cheek.

‘Come to Mungo’s then, for my lunch break? We can chat then,’ Granger said, all eyes.

Well, Pansy thought as she nodded involuntarily. She was fucked.

*

When Parvati got Pansy’s emergency letter from her rather cosy spot in a Parisian hotel, cuppa in hand, her first thought was relief. She had gone on a ‘date’ with Pansy once and it had ended awkwardly, with Parvati thanking the gods that Pansy worked on a different column of the _Prophet._

Her second thought was _shit._ If Pansy couldn’t make it, she’d need to find someone else to take Pansy’s ticket. She wouldn’t want to waste her exclusive front row ticket, nor could she sell it at this point. But as Parvati made to chuck Pansy’s letter in the bin in frustration, she noticed something that made her cackle. The letterhead was from _Healer Granger’s desk_ on the fourth floor of St Mungo’s. The cheeky fucker, she thought. Pansy was moving through the Gryffindors, eh?

But Hermione, she thought. Now that was a shout - she’d be bound to know of someone in Paris who’d take the ticket. Digging up Herm’s Floo Address from her worn leather diary, she crawled to the room’s fireplace, knees nearly touching the grate. Using one hand to hold herself in place, she waited for Herm to pick up, praying that she wasn’t on call.

A cup of tea later, a bushy, if slightly green, head came into view.

‘Parvati,’ Hermione sighed, in a way that could only be done between those who’d grown up seeing each other’s worst embarrassments. ‘Been a long day. You need something?’

‘Hello to you too,’ Parvati said. She didn’t speak to Herm nearly often enough. Parvati squinted and noted that Hermione’s mouth was damp-looking and her neck was flushed. Grinning, Parvati gestured at Hermione’s face. ‘Have you just gone down on Pansy, or something?’ Parvati asked, remembering the letterhead with a smile.

‘Par _vati,’_ Hermione scolded, swatting at the flames. ‘Of _course_ not. I’m at work!’

‘Ah, but you wouldn’t be opposed to,’ Parvati laughed. Hermione just ducked her head at that, honest in her gestures if not in her words. ‘I’ve a question - rather urgent, really. I have a spare ticket for Paris Fashion Week - as Pansy’s obviously missed her Portkey - do you know anyone in Paris that I could give it to? Just don’t want it to go to waste, you know how it is.’

‘Luna’s in Paris,’ Hermione said, face like stone. She was pissed, then. Parvati really thought it had been a poor move on Hermione’s part, choosing a house she very well knew was next to Luna’s rather whimsical, bizzare, _outlandish_ house. A rather nice one, though. Parvati quite liked her shag carpets.

‘Ah, the dreaded neighbour,’ Parvati said instead. She had a feeling Herm wouldn’t appreciate her thoughts on carpeting. ‘What’d she do this time?’

‘She got up at the gate of hell, it seems. Banging and crashing at no sane hour and ran into Pansy on the way to Heathrow. But I suppose that’s only why I met Pansy again.’

‘Do _tell,’_ Parvati said, licking her chapped lips with a grin. She really needed to find her sugar scrub, she thought. And find out exactly why and how Pansy and Hermione became a thing…

‘Pansy was sleeping at Paddington and missed her Portkey. She was sleeping because she was annoyed at Luna, or something.’ Hermione stopped to fan her cheeks discreetly, going slightly cross-eyed like she always did when she was feeling a little humiliated. ‘And I thought - well, we stopped to chat.’

‘You thought _what,_ Hermione’, Parvati said with a cackle. She wasn’t close to Hermione by any means - they didn’t have much in common besides seven years of proximity, but that was enough. Enough to know each other without _knowing_ each other, enough to be a little on the vicious side without being cutting. Not enough to talk about anything that mattered, but enough to tease each other about their failures of a love life.

‘I thought she was homeless,’ Hermione said, teeth gritted. Parvati knew she would never forget Hermione’s face at her laughter, absolutely incredulous.

‘What the _fuck,’_ Parvati wheezed. Her non-existent abs _hurt_. ‘You can’t just go round assuming people are homeless, for fuck’s sake! And surely you’ve been keeping track of what our year was up to after Hogwarts, no? It’d be just like you to do so, as well.’

‘Well,’ Hermione grumped, ‘evidently not. Didn’t you shag Pansy at some point as well? Shouldn’t you be the one updating my list on the whereabouts of our fellow peers?’

‘You fucking _loser_ , and stop changing the subject,’ she scolded. ‘But you’ve got to thank Luna. She might be a character, but she means well. And she’s in Paris?’

‘I’ve found myself saying this too often today,’ Hermione said, head banging into the brick of the fireplace. Parvati winced. ‘But yes, she’s there for an Alternative Healing conference. _Healing,’_ Hermione said bitterly. ‘It’s a fraud, I’m telling you.’

‘I’m sure,’ Parvati said, realising the time. ‘I’ll find a way to get an Owl to her, then. Ta very much, chat next time you campaign for the not-so-homeless, yes?’

‘Chat soon and fuck off,’ Hermione said, already distracted by another sheaf of parchment that had been chucked on her desk by an irate colleague. Was that Cho, Parvati wondered? That’s right, Cho was a Healer now. Funny how they all ended up intertwined, wasn’t it?

Parvati let the flames extinguish as she left the room to ask the concierge if she could so kindly borrow an owl to send a message to Luna, wherever she may be. She just dearly hoped Luna was dressed to impress.

*

Parvati tugged Luna past the Alma bridge onto Avenue du Président Wilson in the glaring noon sun, running as fast as she could in her Blahniks. If a Muggle-Wizarding mix was in fashion-wise, she’d do it right, she thought grimly - even if it meant she had to add a few Cushioning Charms and an Impervius on top of the silk satin that her feet were sweating through.

‘We can see the Seine from here,’ Luna said dreamily, staring over the Alma with one leg nearly over the rail. ‘It’s so nice to see Paris again - I've always wanted to live here. It's been my dream since I came in 1989 with my father when we -’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Parvati snapped. ‘You can see a river. With water, how novel. Father blah blah. Now come _on,_ we’ll be late otherwise!’

If Parvati seemed a little stressed, she thought she could be forgiven for that. It had taken her a good four hours to find and drag Luna out of her quaint little bed and breakfast - not because of any reluctance on Luna’s part, mind, but because Luna took faffing to a whole new level. It had taken her a good forty minutes to decide on an outfit alone, and at the end of it, it wasn’t even _matching._ Parvati’s tongue still stung from the number of times she’d had to bite it. Luna was in a soft yellow turtleneck with a pair of lilac open robes tossed over, goblin silk and gorgeous. The crows kept swarming by her, and Luna, distracted, kept trying to feed them.

‘The birds will still be there when we’re done,’ Parvati sighed. ‘Please - may we just _go?_ Purple and yellow clad as we are?’

‘I suppose,’ Luna sing-songed, taking one last look at the crows soaring back over the Seine. ‘Bye, birds.’

Parvati just pulled her towards an imposing looking building, cheeks flushed from the effort and ears roaring from the rushing of the little cars past her, still not used to the sheer Muggleness of it all. The building wasn’t imposing architecturally, but rather because of all the beautiful people surrounding them - all so tall they must be on stilts and clothes so shiny she thought she’d faint.

‘You ‘lright?’ Luna asked, the touch of her hand on Parvati’s blazer soft. Parvati’s blazer was shiny too. She wondered if that was the requirement, here.

‘No, yeah. Just need a mo,’ Parvati said, eyes blurring at the sheer amount of things she was seeing. ‘Just overwhelmed. Lots of new things. Haven’t been to Europe before.’

‘Oh,’ Luna said, staring very hard at Parvati’s sparkles. ‘This must be nice, then.’

‘Oh definitely,’ Parvati sighed, sagging against Luna and groping for a rail of some sort to clutch onto. ‘Bit of pressure though, from the boss. I need the coverage to be good, and since Pansy’s dropped out, I don’t have a second eye.’

‘Oh,’ Luna said again. She really wasn’t very helpful, Parvati thought. ‘I’d offer but -’

‘Ladies!’ came a distant cry. They both turned and followed the direction of the voice, running past swarming hordes of beautiful people in pinks and golds and all shades of black, turning to run on the grey streets past the decorative white buildings until they heard it again. ‘Ladies!’ came the curious call again, from a lilting voice that still somehow commanded presence.

They reached the cordoned-off steps only to be faced with Fleur. Fleur Delacour, glossy hair streaking down her back in a tailored black suit, her shoulder pads so pointy they looked like - oh. Wings.

Parvati watched Luna watch Fleur’s lips move as she explained the programme for the day, hands moving with such expression Parvati was scared that Fleur might hit the poor soul behind her. Parvati also watched the tips of Luna’s ears go a quiet red. _Interesting,_ she thought. Now _that_ was a development.

_‘_ Follow me,’ Fleur seemed to be saying. Parvati didn’t much care but for the effect Fleur’s words seemed to have on Luna. She never thought _Luna_ would’ve been susceptible to Fleur’s charms, but it was always the unlikely ones, wasn’t it? Luna, perpetually moving about in a world of her own and usually uncaring of the matters of the mundane plane, seemed dazed by the whole matter.

‘Snap out of it,’ Parvati hissed. ‘You need to take photographs of me outside the building - I need to get exclusives of Fleur’s collection and -’

‘L’effect papillon,’ Luna said, all dreamy again. ‘What a splendid name for her first collection.’

‘Fascinating collection title,’ Parvati said, deadpan. ‘The butterfly effect in French, at _Paris_ Fashion Week. How interesting, don’t you think?’

‘There’s no need to be so sarcastic,’ Luna said, mildly as always. Parvati wondered if Luna would ever be roused into anything more.

‘Yes, yes, we’re all connected, chaos theory, more Arithmancy I never paid attention to,’ Parvati dismissed with a wave of her hand. ‘Speaking of, have you heard of what Neville’s been up to? I’m sure there’s something funny between him and Blaise and Ginny. And come _on -_ we need to snag a good spot.’

‘Isn’t there a seating plan?’

‘For the show, yes. But I meant a good spot to people-watch,’ Parvati insisted. ‘We need to make this the best editorial that the _Prophet’s_ ever seen. I need exclusive pictures of everyone’s outfits from multiple angles and -’

‘Calm down, Parvati.’

‘I - I -’ Parvati was harried on a good day, and today she was simply distressed.

‘I’ll help,’ Luna said with a gentle pat on the pack. ‘You should drink some water. I’ll go talk to Fleur for you, yes? Get you an exclusive.’

‘Aren’t you the head of the _Quibbler?’_

‘Not anymore. Dean runs that, now. And yes,’ Luna said, smile very nearly wicked, ‘there _is_ something there between Blaise and Ginny and Neville.’

‘Go on,’ Parvati egged. ‘You can’t just say that without telling me more.’

‘Well, they’re not _together_ together,’ Luna said. ‘But after Neville got stood up by a blind date at the Tate, I took him with me to a Harpies’ match where we sat by Blaise - there to cheer Ginny on, of course. But it was a bit awkward, really. Because I’m not sure Neville could decide who to stare at more - Ginny up in the air or Blaise next to him.’

‘Ah,’ Parvati realised. ‘So they’re playing _that_ game, are they?’

‘I mean, Ginny does have very strong thighs. And it’s better than the mess Harry and Cho and Cedric are in. They’re complete disasters.’

‘Luna!’

And so Parvati collapsed into a velvet-covered chair, shattered. But she didn’t let herself go _completely._ Watching Luna trail after Fleur like she was one of Luna’s more eccentric Blubbering Humdingers, Parvati laughed. L’effect papillon indeed.

*

Luna was composed of a head, a heart and two yards of goblin silk. In this present moment she had no use for the goblin silk, but much use for the head.

‘Fleur,’ she said, trying to sound firm as she approached Fleur backstage, weaving her way past security with a hesitant step. She feared she did not sound like particularly anything, but she was uncertain whether her normal approach of floating through life would help Parvati in her endeavour to speak to Fleur. Luna, too, was uncertain whether she could get to speak to Fleur herself. Hovering by the models’ legs with some trepidation, Luna decided to focus on their auras instead. Nervous, she summarised. Understandable, given it was Fleur’s debut collection. And that it was Fleur.

‘Oh,’ Fleur said, turning around as she saw Luna approach, waving her wand industriously. ‘I’ll be with you soon. I have to fix the models - their clothes. Last minute, you understand?’

‘Right,’ Luna accepted, looking around uncertainly for somewhere to sit. Or stand, even. But it was bustling backstage, and if it weren’t for the VIP pass Fleur had given them earlier, Luna was certain she would never have been let in. There were swathes and swathes of fabric that changed colour in the light, jewels that morphed into animals long gone - _was that a Gulping Plimpy -_ and models with bags for arms and hats for legs, all with wings as the theme. Hence the title, she supposed. And the whole Veela thing, too.

‘Just stay here,’ Fleur said, tapping the table by her irritably as she eyed the hem of a model’s pinafore. ‘What do you want? I’m busy, believe it or not. I have a show to run.’

‘Your time?’ Luna hoped, turning her sunflower smile onto Fleur. Maybe it would work. Or maybe Fleur would turn her icy smile onto Luna, and Luna would be gone again.

‘For what,’ Fleur sighed, looking past Luna’s shoulder for one of her many assistants. ‘Adalie,’ she cried, put out. Turning back to Luna, she repeated her question. ‘What do you need me for.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘I just want your time to ask you some questions?’ Luna mumbled. How very unlike her. She’d have to do some inner soul strengthening when she returned to London. She was usually an oasis of calm. A well, a font, an absolute reservoir of calm.

‘Which these _are,’_ Fleur snapped. ‘If it’s about the divorce, Bill and I remain friends -’

‘No, no,’ Luna said, trying to impress upon Fleur that she was here out of goodwill. Fleur was just so beguiling, that was all. She gestured at her clothes.

Fleur just gave her a deadpan stare. ‘You are wearing a vintage iris goblin silk robe, to put it kindly, over an aureolin turtleneck. I cannot be giving you personalised fashion advice right this minute, but if I were to say anything, it would be that you need a style consultant.’

‘Oh,’ Luna said, blushing as more and more models seemed to file into the very narrow corridor they were in. Backstage always seemed more glamorous in the paper. ‘That’s nice of you to offer.’

‘ _What,’_ Fleur said. ‘You misunderstand me. I am not offering. I am a fashion designer and this is my first collection and I am very busy and four models have ruined their outfits and -’

‘Interesting,’ Luna said, despite being squished by about four very tall models and their fascinators, ‘you talk faster than Parvati.’

‘Your girlfriend out there?’ Fleur was now hurrying all the models in line, even more irritated by Luna’s presence. Luna could leave, if Fleur wanted her to. But Luna had the feeling Fleur didn’t want her to.

‘Not my girlfriend,’ Luna said. ‘She likes someone else, I think. And I don’t have a girlfriend.’

‘Boyfriend, then,’ Fleur said, with such a heavy sigh Luna felt concerned. She watched Fleur nearly collapse into a helpfully-provided chair as she sipped from a fancy pitcher of water, both hands needed to prevent herself from dropping it. Luna wondered why the chair-assistant hadn’t thought of a glass.

‘No, no,’ Luna reassured. ‘I am not seeing anyone. Except you.’

‘ _What.’_

Luna noticed Fleur said that rather a lot.

‘It is true, no? I am looking at you right now.’

‘Listen,’ Fleur said, running a hand through her perfectly curled blonde hair. Luna could never get her hair like that, she knew. She watched Fleur brush her sleek winged blazer, inspect the height of the pockets that lay at either hipbone and stand up ramrod straight. ‘I will talk to you later. After this is all over. Then you can ask me all the questions about whatever you needed to ask about. Including the, ah, personal ones,’ she said, a little glint of something in her eye.

‘Oh,’ Luna said helpfully, gesticulating vaguely as she fished a strand of hair out from where it had been trapped by her radish earrings. ‘I just wanted to know clothing things. Like what inspired you and so on. And preferably exclusive clothing things. Like how many wines you had last night before the opening and how many times you wanted to abandon fashion design before tonight.’

‘A secret realist,’ Fleur said, eyebrows raised. Did she look a little disappointed, or was that just Luna projecting? Not that Luna _was_ projecting. ‘You wouldn’t think it, looking at you and all your...frou-frou.’

‘And what would you think, looking at me?’

‘It’s just a shame,’ Fleur said, deflecting, ‘as I would have answered your _personal_ questions.’

Luna gaped after her as security ushered her out for the show, feeling a little disoriented. Well, she thought. This was new. Usually, it was the other way round.

Was this how people felt when they fell in ~~love~~ like?

*

The show was a roaring success for three reasons - firstly, that the collection was just damn good and not the embarrassment Parvati had feared it to be; secondly, Parvati had got her exclusive and some _very_ nice shots; and finally, that Parvati had managed to keep Luna in check. Or, more reasonably, Luna had managed to keep herself in check. No strange and wafty comments to the guests sitting next to her, no odd outfit changes in the middle of the day, and most importantly, she had managed to not say anything off to Fleur. Or so Parvati hoped, but the degree to which Luna was staring at Fleur, mouth agape, did not reassure Parvati’s worries.

Saying goodbye to Luna, who couldn’t stay for the evening due to her Alternative ‘Healing’ - Merlin, now _she_ was doing it - conference the next day, Parvati ran through down rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré with only a few minor mishaps. Minor, certainly, if one didn’t count the fact that she lost a heel in the grate, her umbrella was blown upside down by the wind and that a rather portly old man had spilled his coffee all down her shiny blazer, which had been a half a month’s pay as well.

Parvati just about made it to the afterparty at Le Bristol in the nick of time. With her, she carried a clutch from Fleur’s collection, straight off the runway, a flask of Ogden’s (because she was apparently still fifteen) and the remains of her dignity. Heading towards the open bar, asking for a double, she began drinking. And Parvati could drink, having had her formative experiences cultivated, let’s say, by the Gryffindors her time. The bar was filled with all types, she noticed after a good hour - dignitaries and fashion types, minor celebrities and surprisingly enough, her dry cleaner. Or at least the stranger looked like her dry cleaner. Parvati nearly toppled off her stool trying to look, a warm hand stabilising her as Parvati clutched at the bar.

‘What are you doing here,’ Parvati demanded as she turned round to see her dry cleaner’s face, realising she should probably go off and mingle at some point. ‘This is Paris.’

‘I know it’s Paris,’ said the dry cleaner, amused. ‘You’re very drunk - maybe you should drink something?’

Parvati just waved her second Smoked Hibiscus margarita at her dry cleaner. What _was_ her name, again?

‘I have a drink,’ Parvati said, displaying her cocktail proudly. ‘It even has a little petal in it.’

‘I meant water.’

‘What,’ Parvati said, tottering slightly on her heels as she stood up, ‘does star anise, coriander seed and tequila not do it for you?’

‘I can’t say it does,’ the dry cleaner said, following her onto the floor. The dry cleaner was in a dark dress that could have been any of purple, green or brown. Parvati wanted to take it off her. Because it was an ugly dress, obviously.

‘I have to tell you a secret,’ Parvati whispered, feeling a sudden urge to say something. Or maybe yelled, she couldn’t quite tell. ‘I’m a witch.’

‘Parvati,’ said the dry cleaner - odd, the dry cleaner usually called her Padma or some variation thereof, ‘you can’t say that here. This is a Muggle hotel.’

‘Really?’ Parvati said. ‘Because you’re a witch. And you’re here.’

‘You’re drunk,’ the dry cleaner said. Who was definitely a witch, that Parvati knew. She knew because she went to St James every month specifically to give her work blazers to her witch of a dry cleaner to dry clean, using magic. And things.

‘I’m not - not _drunk,’_ Parvati said, drunk. She deserved it. Today had been harrowing - watching Luna and Fleur get it on from her vantage point of an inch away, all very awkward, like.

‘Of course not,’ the dry cleaner said, amused. The dry cleaner had very nice eyes, Parvati thought. They looked very eye-like.

‘Sorry about the vibrator thing,’ Parvati hiccoughed with a wave of her hand. ‘Didn’t mean it.’

‘ _What,’_ said the dry cleaner. The dry cleaner really was a bit surprised, all things considering. ‘A vibrator, did you say?’

‘When I - when I send - sent - sented? When I sent the vibrator in with the. The. No, my. My lingerie - I gave it to you. My pants. And bras, and my babydolls and garters and -’

‘You gave your lingerie and vibrator to someone?’ The dry cleaner seemed almost miffed at that. Maybe even a tad jealous?

‘No - yes, _you,’_ Parvati insisted, jabbing the dry cleaner with her finger. ‘No - sorry,’ she giggled. ‘But yes, you. Sorry I poked you, though.’

‘Of course,’ the dry cleaner said mildly. ‘Who am I, again?’

‘You silly,’ Parvati laughed. ‘You’re my dry cleaner, of course.’ Parvati squinted, unsure as to why the dry cleaner was looking at her that way. ‘It was an accident? I really didn’t mean to send my vibrator in. Promise. Triple promise. Pink promise. I mean pinky. Pinky promise,’ Parvati enthused, wiggling her pinky - or was that her fourth finger - at her dry cleaner.

Parvati blinked as the coloured lights turned to hit them, clouding her vision even more than the four shots she’d had. The dry cleaner looked relieved - and offended?

‘So you’re not sending your lingerie to - to someone, then? A girlfriend? Boyfriend?’

‘No, silly,’ Parvati nodded. ‘I’m - single. Single. Yes. Alone. Lonely? Alonnne,’ she slurred, waving around at her. ‘Like the song. _How can I get you alonnnne,’_ she sang. Possibly off-key.

‘That’s a shame,’ the dry cleaner said, not seeming very sorry. But still a little offended.

‘Have - have I offended you?’ Parvati giggled. ‘You seem annoyed.’

The dry cleaner shuffled. ‘You really think I’m your dry cleaner?’

‘No? Yes?’ Parvati giggled. ‘This is a fun game.’

‘I’m Lavender,’ the not-dry cleaner said wryly. ‘Lavender Brown.’

Parvati chose this exact moment to collapse to the sticky, sticky floor.

*

One gratefully-taken Hangover Potion later, Parvati’s morning was looking up. She’d go explore Paris, she thought. Go for breakfast with Luna, perhaps, before her conference and nab that Portkey back in the evening. As Parvati made her way down to her hotel lobby, searching for Luna amongst the other guests in the piano lounge, she spotted a pink person by her. How odd, that Luna was collecting people now. Were corks not enough?

As Parvati edged closer to the piano Luna was standing by, she thought something felt a little off about this pink-clad person.

‘Lavender!’ Parvati shrieked in realisation, running to embrace her friend. ‘I haven’t seen you in _yonks,_ it seems. You should’ve come to visit. Why didn’t you come visit? She’s utterly horrid, don’t you think, Luna?’

Luna just looked at her oddly. ‘You saw Lavender last night,’ she called at Parvati, who was too busy trying to scrutinise Lavender’s every change since Hogwarts in a glance. ‘And you talk really fast and in really short sentences. Have you noticed?’

‘No I didn’t,’ Parvati said, confused. ‘And no I don’t. Of course I don’t! Why would you say that?’

‘She’s right,’ Lavender said, still clutching onto Parvati’s glittery shoulder as if Parvati wasn’t quite real. But she _was,_ thank you very much. ‘We did see each other last night.’

‘No,’ Parvati said, shakily laughing. ‘I would’ve remembered.’ Parvati let herself recall last night’s events - a smoke outside, coming back inside, cleaning her cocktail dress all in gold and - oh. The dry cleaner, she realised. And the open bar. Possibly not the _best_ combination.

‘You were drunk,’ Lavender said by way of explanation, calmly shrugging. Lavender was in a pink floor-length Elie Saab dress that Aphrodite herself would envy. Parvati said so, and let herself be smug at Lavender’s coy smile of appreciation. The dress was slightly sheer, as well. Parvati had to do her best to - to look elsewhere, she told herself sternly.

Lavender’s fingers were still lightly looped around Parvati’s clammy hands and she had never felt her knuckles so _acutely._ Parvati looked up into Lavender’s warm eyes and let herself grin.

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ Parvati confessed. ‘More than I’ve missed anything.’

‘Really now,’ Lavender said, not acknowledging Parvati’s confession as the three of them headed to sit down at a coffee table. ‘Because last night you seemed to think I was your dry cleaner.’

‘Shit, really?’ Parvati laughed, trying to play it off. ‘Dry cleaner? Of all things to say…’ Parvati trailed off awkwardly, hoping that Lavender hadn’t actually taken offence. She pinched at the skin behind her ear, willing herself to say something sensible.

‘And something about your vibrator. You haven’t been flirting with your dry cleaner, have you?’ Lavender said, tone suspiciously light.

‘No,’ Parvati said, with uncharacteristic bravery. ‘There’s only one person, really, who I’d like to flirt with.’

‘Right,’ Lavender said, gaze shuttering. ‘Well, it was nice seeing you after so many years. But I’ve got to go now - but we should meet up for coffee sometime.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Parvati said, accusatory. ‘You’re just going to keep vaguely talking about sometime in the future with no actual intention to meet up. That’s what they all say, to fob you off. _Let’s go for coffee, sometime._ Just say you don’t want to see me again. And you can keep your passive-aggressiveness to yourself, thanks. I know exactly how long it’s been. Because it’s been exactly that many years since you _didn’t want to see me anymore._ ’

‘Of course I want to see you, Parvati,’ Lavender says, pained. Parvati is suddenly struck by how much she doesn’t know about this Lavender - the Lavender who fled to Toulouse, the Lavender who can never get a job again. The Lavender with the same mannerisms but, suddenly, a whole new set of values. ‘But if you’re just going to spend all your time telling me about your new - new fling, new lover, new whoever - I don’t think I could survive, again.’

‘What,’ Parvati said. ‘I’m supposed to be the dramatic one, no? What’s this all about?’ If Parvati sounded a bit defensive, she thought she could be forgiven for it.

‘It’s okay,’ Lavender said. ‘You’re seeing someone.’

‘What,’ Parvati said. ‘No the fuck I’m not. I’m single. Alone. Lonely. Not with anyone. I have approximately negative sexual partners as of two months ago.’

‘You said that last night,’ Lavender said, ‘but I wasn’t sure you meant it.’

‘Are you accusing me of - of wanting to _cheat_ on a partner I do not have?’

‘No,’ Lavender said, ‘only that maybe you meant you were alone that night, or something.’

‘That doesn’t make sense?’

‘Well, neither do you,’ Lavender huffed, eyes crinkling with a smile, offering out one of her hands in conciliation. But Parvati could only look at her face, full of adoration. Parvati wanted to kiss her, she was so beautiful. Fucking radiant, she was. And finally here, again.

‘Poor comeback, Lav,’ Parvati said, instead. ‘I expected more from you. Shame.’ But at least they were on good footing, again.

‘We should meet up,’ Lavender said, eyes tender. She reached up to cup Parvati’s face like they used to do, back in the dorms when life wasn’t miserable and crap and all sorts. Life really was miserable, without Lavender. When Parvati said so, Lavender just stood up and wrapped her into a warm hug. Lavender, noticing how Parvati froze, released her immediately.

‘Everything alright?’

‘Yeah,’ Parvati replied, knowing it came off as weak as she felt as she sat back down again. It was hard, she realised, to not kiss Lavender now that they were back together again. She decided to look at Luna instead. That was safer - all the emotion that that surfaced was mild irritation and a little bit of gratefulness.

‘Well, I do really have to go,’ Lavender said, eyes a bit dimmed after Parvati’s pathetic response to her hug. Turning to leave the lounge, she gave Parvati and Luna one last wave as she headed back into the lobby and out of the hotel doors, letting them swing behind her.

Parvati looked at Lavender, then Luna, then back at Lavender. She looked at Luna’s expression - a mixture of mirth and frustration - and knew what she had to do. Reenact those shitty Muggle films, that’s what.

‘Wait!’ Parvati cried, running in yesterday’s Blahniks after Lavender, bursting out the doors onto the Parisian street. Fuck, she should take better care of her ankles. ‘Come back,’ she implored to the shocked Lavender. ‘You have to tell me everything. What you’ve been up to in Paris - everything.’

There was a pause as Lavender stopped to take in Parvati, flustered as usual, and the giant, sprawling mess that was Parvati’s life.

‘I have a terrible boss,’ Parvati continued, for confessions seemed to be the norm here, ‘great friends, a too-small flat and a job I love. And yet I hate it, because I find myself missing you. Wondering about you, loving you. Even though we don’t know each other anymore.’

Lavender just blinked, offering out her hands again for Parvati to take as she subconsciously edged towards her. Parvati, flustered, dropped Lavender’s hands.

‘No, no no no, that’s not what I meant,’ Parvati insisted, as Lavender made an awkward shuffle to leave. Then Parvati plucked up every ounce of stereotyped Gryffindor courage she had pinched off the brave types and decided to go for it. 

'Can I kiss you,' Parvati said, scrunching her eyes to avoid having to see rejection written out for her on Lavender's face. But, because this was apparently like the films after all, Lavender threw herself at her, snogging her truly and properly.

‘Sorry,’ Parvati said, sheepish as she realised they were in the middle of a street, 'but I won’t let you go. Not until we talk about this thing we have,’ she said, gesturing between them. ‘Until we end up on the same page. So we don’t avoid each other gingerly for another five years. So we don’t end up missing what could be the best part of our lives.’

Lavender just smiled, reaching in for another kiss.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she told Parvati. ‘You’ll always be my best part.’

*

When Luna received two letters stamped from Paris, her dream city, it had been a good three weeks after she and Fleur had met. Luna kept her hopes low, for there were many things a letter could be about, she told herself. The contents could pertain to many a thing. Certainly not anything Luna would’ve liked, she was sure. Not anything to do with a job she had applied for there, not anything from Fleur. So when she opened the first letter, she was certainly not expecting _this._

_Dearest Luna,_

_(for that is what lovers call each other,) I am writing to inform you of an unexpected development. After your surprising and much-treasured appearance at my show last month - thank you very much for coming - the French media has somehow seized upon the idea that we are dating._

How terrible, Luna thought, with a silly smile she hoped her mirror couldn't see. Her mirror _was_ rather opinionated. It couldn’t be at all to do with the ‘least subtle heart eyes I’ve ever seen in my fucking life’, according to Parvati. Oh dear.

_A model from the show has given a statement, quoting you as having said ‘I am not seeing anyone. Except you.’ That, along with some backstage exclusives taken by some local reporters, have convinced the public I have moved onto another. It has done wonders for my reputation, which my collection was seeking to rehabilitate after my divorce. I was wondering - if this request would not be too callous - if you would agree to be seen in public with me at least twice? After that, we can release a press statement, and you shall be released from whatever we will agree to prior any further public contact._

_Please write back, should you agree. I would be most grateful._

_Much love,_

_Fleur Delacour_

If Luna was being honest, she saw no real reason that they had to wait before releasing a press statement. They could just say it was a misunderstanding, and move on with their lives. Luna would not have to put herself through pretending not to be entranced by Fleur and Luna could focus on her Healing practice.

But an excuse to see Fleur again, she thought. Because the reality was, Luna couldn’t focus. Luna was too busy wondering about Fleur, and whether her hair would be put in curls that day or not, or whether Fleur ever thought of her. Whether Fleur ever decided to ruffle herself up - to be more relaxed, to go out in a frilly dress or a clashing pair of robes and top, to go out messy and honest and real like Luna. Or, ultimately, whether Fleur was even interested like Luna had pretended to herself that she was. Luna was so used to not getting what she wanted, she saw no reason to start now.

But.

But Fleur made her hope. And Fleur made her foolish - well, more foolish than she already was. But there was no harm living in an illusory world, she thought. Because her feet were firmly on the ground as she did so. Dipping her quill in a pot of pink ink, she wrote a reply. One word: _yes_.

*

If Hermione could change one thing, it wouldn’t be the faction war that was currently happening in St Mungo’s. Nor would it be that she’d lost her favourite colleague Cho to a hospital in Tokyo, nor that Harry had fucked off join Cho in Japan after a conference he and Cedric had attended there as delegates for the Ministry, _still_ never available for tea. It would be, as always, that she was neighbours with Luna fucking Lovegood.

It was four o’clock - in the morning, that was - and Hermione was pissed, because all she could hear was Luna’s suitcase rolling on the pavement outside. But instead of lurching for the window and yelling at Luna, as was her customary habit, she was tugged by a sleeping hand back down to bed.

‘Shut up,’ Pansy mumbled, pushing Hermione back down onto a rather fluffy set of pillows. ‘Go back to sleep. Just cast a Silencing Charm, Miss Brightest Witch.’

Hermione just smiled and pushed Pansy’s fringe out of her eyes, rolling back over to loop an arm around Pansy’s warm waist. So instead of fishing her wand from where it had rolled onto the floor in the night to cast a weak Tempus, she let herself doze off, curling into Pansy.

That is, until her _lovely, considerate, self-aware_ neighbour decided to crash into the lamppost by Hermione’s door, grunting in pain. Fuck’s sake, she thought, groaning as she was, yet again, roused from whatever slumber she may have had.

But as Hermione was an _actual_ Healer, she felt obliged to go check on Luna. Donning Pansy’s dressing gown, a blue concoction of a thing that really was highly inappropriate outerwear, she cracked her front door open with some trepidation.

‘Luna,’ she whispered, worried. ‘Everything alright?’

Luna just waved, cheery as always. ‘I promise to send you a postcard from Paris this time,’ she sang, getting up with a wince.

‘Have fun dating Fleur,’ Hermione cautioned, reaching out to help Luna up. Hermione had never been a fan of this whole fake-dating malarkey - it would only end up in a heartbroken Luna, and Hermione couldn’t even deal with Luna on a heart-full day, let alone if she was miserable. But, she had discovered, Luna could be stubborn when she wanted to be. And seemingly, joining Fleur Delacour on her propaganda campaign seemed to be one of those occasions.

‘It’ll be real,’ Luna kept insisting. ‘Because anything can become real, should you wish it.’

‘That’s absolutely not how life works,’ Hermione had said, ever-more concerned for her neighbour, if only so Luna wouldn’t keep inviting herself over to Hermione’s place for tea when she wanted to spend time with Pansy. But Luna wouldn’t be dissuaded.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Luna said, taking her cold hand out of Hermione’s warm one. Hermione already missed Pansy and she had only been gone from their bed for five minutes. ‘I promise you. It’ll be a real date.’

‘No,’ Hermione said, ‘you just think that.’ The cold night air was crisp and clean, and Hermione suddenly felt very young. She thought of Harry, finally pursuing Cho _and_ Cedric, of Luna still putting herself out there for Fleur, of Parvati and Lavender, dancing their way through Paris as they worked through their mess of a relationship together. Of how she had given Pansy a chance - and how Pansy had given her one too, when they had gone to get coffee and a kiss. Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, if more people gave each other chances?

Maybe, she thought with a quiet smile, she should give Luna a chance. Give Luna a chance to go chase Fleur, a chance for Luna to believe in her own world. For them all to believe in their own dreams in the world that they called theirs. She grinned at Luna experimentally. 

‘Well,’ Luna said, swinging her plaits out of her face with a matching grin, pulling her suitcase towards her, ‘Fleur and I are currently in a long-distance committed relationship according to the French media. That’s fake. But we really are going on a real date. A really very real real date - our first. Tomorrow, after I settle in.’

‘Settle in?’ Hermione asked, a genuine smile beginning to spread as she offered Luna a hug. ‘Luna,’ she teased, knowing how much Luna has wanted this, ‘are you going to move to Paris?’

‘Yes,’ Luna said, happy. Happy at last.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried a very different style here! Although time got the better of me and I didn't manage to do everything I set out to do (I had planned a whole Harry/Cedric/Cho arc), I hope you enjoyed it! <3


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